“There is no quiet place in the white man’s cities, no place to hear the leaves of spring or the rustle of insect wings…the clatter only seems to insult the ears.”—Chief Seattle (Seathl) Duwamish–Suquamish, 1785-1866
Yes, indeed. This is something I certainly can relate to as I go about my day, and as I try to settle in at night to sleep.
I’m so accustomed now to blare and squawk,
the hum of electricity whining through machines that
keep me warm or keep me cool, tell me when to wake
now when it’s time for sleep, I find silence unsettling.
I reach again for the controls, turn on
the white noise of television, my modern lullaby.
It startles me now in spring when, window open
to call in breezes, I hear forgotten sounds of loons
and Canada geese giving thanks for morning
The neighbouring rooster no longer sings
his call to rouse the farm, even the drab pigeons
no longer coo-roo-coo along the back fence.
CAS Jan. 31, 2015